Chapter 41 #2
Then, he nodded solemnly. “No more secret plans. Pinky swear.”
* * *
The waiting room shifted.
Not suddenly, not all at once, but like a slow-building wave, pulling everything under before anyone could brace for impact.
First, a murmur.
Then, a breath—held, waiting.
The hum of the room didn’t just change. It dipped like the air was sucked out. Conversations cut short. Eyes moved toward the hallway—some cautious, some curious, some quickly looking away.
A nurse passing by hesitated at the sight of Tate’s security, then turned on her heel and disappeared down another corridor.
And then, footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. The rhythmic click of dress shoes. The kind of sound that carried weight before the man even arrived.
And then, Tate.
The governor strode toward them, effortless and untouchable. He was flanked by his security and a press crew, and the cameras were already rolling.
Oakland recognized him immediately, not just from his face or how he carried himself.
It was the eye.
That creepy fucking blue eye.
Even without the cameras, without the staged concern, he was unmistakable.
A politician’s performance.
He came to a smooth, effortless stop just short of the waiting area, hands clasped in front of him.
Like he belonged here.
Like he had a right to this moment.
Then, “Christine Rayner, yes?”
His voice was low, steady, practiced.
Christine barely reacted, her fingers tightening at her sides, but Tate kept going.
“I wanted to personally come and check on your sister after this tragic accident.”
Tate let the words settle, stretching their gravity just long enough for the cameras to catch them. Then, with slow precision, he extended a small bouquet: blue and white irises, their delicate petals stark against his grip.
“A gift,” he said smoothly, “from my wife.”
Eden’s eyes darkened at the gesture, her expression sharpening, but she said nothing.
Christine, standing beside her, hesitated. Then, with careful fingers, she accepted them—tentative, wary, as if the flowers might wilt in her hands.
The cameras caught that, too.
The gesture made Oakland’s vision go red.
“This tragedy weighs heavily on all of us. No one should have to experience such senseless violence. That’s why my administration is taking action to ensure our streets remain peaceful, safe, and protected from those who seek chaos.”
Tate’s gaze flickered across the room, reading, adjusting, shaping the moment to fit his narrative.
Then, he smiled.
That polished, camera-ready, manufactured fucking smile.
Oakland’s temper began to waver.
Spencer’s body was thrown into the street. Derek was nearly beaten to death. People like Tate built a world where this could happen, and now he was standing here, selling it like a goddamn fender bender.
The press shifted forward.
The cameras adjusted.
The lights felt too bright, too hot, pressing down on her like a weight.
Oakland didn’t think.
She didn’t hesitate.
She stepped forward.
Between Christine and Tate.
Between the truth and the lie he built.
And Tate’s grin widened.
Like he was waiting for her.
Oakland lifted her chin, her pulse thundering, her breath steady, her hands curling into fists.
She spent her entire life afraid of men like him.
Not anymore.
Tate’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened—the perfect balance of amused and condescending, like he was humoring a child throwing a tantrum.
The cameras were locked on them now, lenses gleaming, waiting.
Waiting for him to win.
Waiting for Oakland to bend.
She could feel Christine behind her, could hear the way her breath came too shallow, too sharp.
Eden was recording, phone angled just right, her expression unreadable.
Tate took a single, calculated step closer to Oakland. “And you are?”
The words came smoothly and quickly, designed to put her in her place, to remind her that she was nothing, no one, someone to be forgotten.
Oakland squared her shoulders.
Lifted her chin.
And waited?—
Waited—
Until Tate’s gaze settled on her, until the cameras leaned in, until the whole room hung in the space between them.
Then, slow. Steady. Unshakable.
“My name is Oakland Pratt.”
A breath.
She let it settle, letting its weight fill the space between them.
Oakland. Fucking. Pratt.
The room shook with it.
The air crackled.
Tate’s smile faltered.
Just for a fraction of a second. Because he recognized that name now.
Oakland stepped in close, voice steady, cutting, deadly.
“You want to call this an accident?” she asked. “You want to stand here and act like you give a damn about my friend fighting for her life while surgeons try to piece her skull back together?”
Tate opened his mouth, but Oakland didn’t let him speak.
“We all saw what happened. And the world will see it, too. One of your trolls pushed her into traffic. You can spin it, you can lie, but the people aren’t stupid.”
Her pulse roared.
The cameras leaned in.
This was the moment. The moment they would play again and again. The moment they would remember.
“You can shove all the speeches and press conferences you want down our throats,” she said. “But you can’t control us.”
Tate’s jaw tightened. His blue eye twitched. And then, slowly, his grin returned. He was ready, once again, to perform.
And that?—
That was it. The moment everything clicked.
She saw it all so clearly now.
She saw her father’s sermons, warning of the dangers of people like her.
She saw her mother’s silence, a quiet confirmation that she was already too far gone.
She saw her father’s expressionless stare on the day she came out.
She saw Christine and Silver standing over Spencer’s broken body.
She saw Derek bleeding in the street.
She saw the young women in her classroom, still believing that this world would be kind to them.
And at the center of it?—
Tate.
And there it was.
The finest line.
The line between control and collapse, between power and consequence.
The line she was told her whole life never to cross.
It would be unladylike. Unbecoming. Dangerous.
But if this was the line that separated them—if this was what kept men like him in charge and people like her erased?—
Then fuck the line.
Her hand whipped through the air, fast, clean, brutal?—
And struck Tate across the face.
The sound echoed through the waiting room, sharp and unshakable.
Tate staggered back.
A breathless beat.
And then?—
Something fell.
A tiny, useless thing.
His blue contact lens hit the tile with a soft, wet tap.
For a second, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then, all eyes turned to him.
Tate’s real eye, the one he never let anyone see, was just as dark as the other.
Two brown eyes. No difference. No contradiction. No careful balance of light and dark. It was all manufactured.
A lie.
Silence crashed over the room.
Then, Oakland laughed.
Not just laughed. Barked.
Sharp, incredulous, genuine.
“Are you serious?” She shook her head, breathless, dizzy with how stupid this all was. “The eye thing was fake?”
Tate didn’t answer. Not yet. Not with the cameras rolling or the press locked onto him like wolves scenting blood. His jaw clenched, just for a second—the tiniest flicker of something ugly, something lethal.
Then, smooth again. He stepped back, adjusted his tie, and forced that famous Tate smile—tight, plastic, wrong.
He waved his security off.
They released Oakland, leaving her standing there, fuming.
And then, he turned and simply walked away with his crew in tow.
But Oakland felt it.
The shift.
The moment sinking into something irreversible.
The line was crossed.
The first stone was thrown.
And Tate?
Tate would make damn sure she paid for it.
?